Shrink

First, you discard this room. Get
yourself a new room. But you
will not know that. It will be dark,
airless. You will not know if you
are dead or alive; you are not
aware of your breathing. In a few
moments you shrink the world,
or the world shrinks you,
into a page.

I still let the little things get to me. Some slightly ignorant people, a fucked-up corporate webmail. They wear my patience thin like a book - page by page of seemingly futile thrusts in gloveless brain-fists falling. It has a weak spine. Perhaps I too. There is no sure way of knowing; I can't open my own back with my arms grown forward. And I stay in my room most days - untouched by winds to blow me off my feet. There is a lesson here, somewhere, I know. Yet, I don't know.

I can't do big things then. Obviously. Unless, I learn to shrink them to things little enough. Little enough so that they won't get to me. First, discard this room. Get myself a new room. It may be dark, suffocating. Like a change, which speaks of uncertainties, the unknowns. You analyse the room. Cut it into pieces. The more you know of the room, the more you know of yourself. Will I still be me? Does it matter, when you have never truly seen yourself? Still, I shrink, or the room shrinks, or the world shrinks...starting now. Or the process has never ended...